


What Infinite Heart's-Ease

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Existential Angst, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 08:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11460099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: The bittersweet aftermath of a famous victory leaves Arthur battered and traumatised. But he must hide his pain, and be the King that his people need. Thankfully, he has Merlin by his side.





	What Infinite Heart's-Ease

**Author's Note:**

> _"What infinite heart's-ease_  
>  _Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!"_  
>  \--Henry V, Act 4, Scene 1 
> 
> Fills the "Exhaustion" square on my hurt/comfort bingo card.

Arthur remembered little of the battle. The sharp sing-sing of bare steel. Slice, dive, dodge, block. Every moment drawn out, expanded into minute pieces, each perfect, sculpted, a dance of lightning bolts, slowed within his awareness to a stately rhythm of attack and counter-attack. His body a weapon, an instrument of vengeance, honed to a perfect point.

The ordeal was over, for now. So he smiled and waved and held his clenched fist high as the citizens hailed their glorious king and his retinue, still stained and bloodied and stinking, but bearing the spoils of war, Saxon weapons and pennants and banners held aloft. Ignoring the agony that thrilled through his screaming muscles, he sat straight-backed upon his mount, lifting a proud chin for his people, to show them that they had stood strong.

The battle was won. And he would do it all again in a heartbeat. For his people, for his land. For Camelot.

But even now, as his tall battle-horse strode through the cheering crowds, washed in by the tide of victory, even as his triumphant knights clattered in upon his wake, the aftermath slid through his aching muscles like a slow, agonising poison, leaching the remaining strength from his limbs and sending searing darts of pain into his already aching head. Upon dismounting in the courtyard, he beckoned to a group of waiting stablehands, who rushed to his aid. With an effort, he willed his hands not to tremble as he handed over his reins. He flashed a tired smile at them in thanks, and they bowed and beamed back at him, faces ruddy with pride and excitement, before scuttling over to assist Merlin.

Arthur watched from some detached, remote place while Merlin chattered and laughed and patted his horse’s rump before dismissing the lads and their charges. Concentrating on keeping his feet rooted to the ground, so that he didn’t sway or betray his weariness, Arthur kept the smile plastered to his face, waiting for Merlin to return, for the busy courtyard to be silent so that he could breath freely. He ventured a deep inhale, but the heavy stench still lay upon him and his throat worked against it. He closed his eyes, just for a second, fighting his own rising gorge.

“Sire?” Merlin’s hand was steady under his elbow, a strength to it that cut through the armour. “Let’s get you cleaned up for the victory feast, shall we?”

Arthur’s eyes flicked open as he exhaled, and he nodded, the movement threatening to make him stumble beneath the weight of his armour. Of course, there would have to be a victory feast. His knights deserved it, and the fallen had to be commemorated. There would be speeches, and visits to the wounded, and a vigil… The battle had ended but in many ways his ordeal was just beginning.

“No need think about it, yet, sire,” Merlin soothed as he guided Arthur with gentle but sturdy hands towards the steps up to the citadel. “We’ll bring you a hot bath, first, scented with lavender. Some hot mead will iron out the stiffness--”

“Shut up, Merlin!” Through clenched teeth, Arthur growled out a churlish warning that abruptly stopped the flow of words.

While the thought of a hot bath and some strong liquor to leech the cold from his aching bones was a welcome one, it reminded him too much of his own privilege. Merlin’s solicitousness, however well meant, drained his already weary limbs as surely as lifting a sword. Many would not live to see the end of this day. So many had fallen, their position almost overrun. A heroic few still battled for their lives, upon pallets and stretchers, in tents and pavilions out on the battlefield. Arthur’s good fortune in being cared for felt wrong, somehow.

Merlin cocked his head on one side. “But you stink like the back end of a carthorse!” His mouth twisted mulishly. “And you don’t look much better either.”

“You smell worse,” retorted Arthur, automatically, reaching the top of the steps. “Grubby, unwashed peasant.” This was better. Insults, he could deal with. Kindness, however... well. With the way he felt at that moment, a horrible mix of tiredness and pain and loss clashing with euphoria and relief? Kindness would break his carefully constructed facade, make it shatter into tiny splinters. He could not let that happen, not now.

He stood, for a second, to catch his breath, and a wave of fatigue sent the muscles in his arms and legs into painful spasms that made him grit his teeth and rock forward, hands touching the wall, stretching them out.

“Come on, keep going, prat!” Merlin half-cajoled, half-carried Arthur through the citadel doors as if he was a reluctant mare. “By all the Gods! You smell like a flatulent mule, and you’re twice as stubborn.”

“Insolent, insubordinate bumpkin,” croaked out Arthur through the fog of exhaustion.

But later, buoyed up by honeyed mead and the warmth of the bath, Arthur paid his visit to the makeshift field hospital that had been set out in the fields beyond the wall, stopping to spare a kind word for every knight who was conscious, and laying a regretful hand of farewell upon the chests of those who were not.

But reaching one bedside, his heart burned with a sudden, heavy loss.

“Sir Kay?” he said gazing down upon the still form of his childhood friend, his foster brother. Kay’s eyes were closed and his chest still moved, but slowly. Rattling as he breathed. In, out. In, out. Arthur watched mesmerised, fearing that any moment might be Kay’s last. “What evil is this? Gaius? Can you save him”

“I’m so sorry, Sire,” said Merlin, swift with the honorific for once. “I saw him fall beneath a Saxon war-horse’s hooves. He was defending his cohort. He fell bravely, and an arrow took the Saxon a bare instant later. The rest of his cohort lived to fight on.”

“I’m sorry, Sire,” echoed Gaius, the gentle tone of his voice telling Arthur everything that he did not wish to hear. “I fear his ribs were crushed. His lungs have suffered a mortal wound.”

“No.” Stricken, Arthur felt the pain and the horror of the past day return in full force, a burning heat that stung his eyes.

Kay had been the closest thing Arthur had to a brother. They had fought and played together as children, rivals and friends, loyal and brutal by turns as brothers can be. He had been brave-hearted and true, only lately returned to Camelot from Caerleon. Arthur pictured him as he had been, laughing as he swung across a pond in the summer sunshine, falling with a great splash, raising waves and startling the local waterfowl into indignant quacks. Loud and fearless, Kay had been, full of infectious laughter and the first to join Arthur on any ridiculous escapade that had taken his fancy. The pale set of his face now, his silence, the pained rise and fall of his rib cage, seemed so wrong, so ugly. Arthur wanted to roar and scream, pushing over the tables to vent his anger.

But he was being watched. Other knights needed him. The townsfolk tended them, under Gaius’s watchful eye. He would have to put aside his grief for his foster brother, for all the fallen, and look to the living.

“Do what you can to ease his passing, Gaius,” he rasped, forcing himself to turn away, though it felt as if the movement ripped his heart, breaking the last thread that bound Arthur to his long ago childhood.

“It shall be as you say, Your Majesty.” Gaius bowed.

Arthur nodded. As he turned away, he caught Merlin’s eye. They exchanged a long, pained look.

“His sacrifice was not in vain,” said Merlin, his throat working, eyes somehow both dark and bright at the same time.

And suddenly Arthur remembered Merlin’s childhood friend, Will, who had died sacrificing himself in battle, and he knew that Merlin understood. It did not dull the pain, but somehow it helped that it was shared.

Throughout the victory feast, endless streams of courtiers filled the Great Hall, mouthing platitudes that Arthur returned, somehow. Vanquished nobles laid their riches before him, begging for his pardon, and he nodded, distantly, his mind elsewhere, in a glade in the summer sun, wrestling with Kay until their limbs were heavy and their skin pink from the heat.

After the last of them had grovelled, Arthur noting vaguely that there was a large mole on the top of his balding pate, Arthur stood to excuse himself, and dismissed the court.

But not for him the warmth and comfort of his chambers, not though every sinew screamed at him to rest. He was the King. And the King had duties beyond the mere ceremonial, at times like these.

Following an internal rhythm that echoed the beat of his heart, Arthur put one steady foot in front of the other. Merlin followed, quiet, like a faithful dog. Their breath fogged in the cold night air, sending out billowing ghosts, as if their souls left their bodies, drawn away by the distant moon. Slowly, they trudged across the frosty courtyard. The chapel loomed out of the mist, and a guard ushered them through into the hallows where Arthur knelt upon cold stone.

For such is the duty of the King, to give thanks for his victory, and to honour those who would not return.

And still Merlin stood behind him, waiting in the shadows as always, the rock upon which Arthur’s kingship was founded.

The pain in Arthur’ knees mingled with the burning ache of his protesting muscles, and the sorrow that crushed his heart, until time dissolved away and there was only the cold and the merciless weight of the kingdom pressing upon his shaking shoulders.

“Dear Goddess, why?” he roared, his anguish echoing back to him from the high ceiling, as if mocking him. Why-y-y?

He was not good enough for this. He did not deserve this. He was not worthy of the trust that his people placed upon him. The sons, the daughters, the pride and hope of the kingdom, lay bleeding and broken upon a field, and all for what?

“I failed,” he admitted, in the quiet of the chapel, in the peace of his mind. “The price was too great.”

“No, my Lord.” The voice that answered him was familiar, but he could not place it at first. “You won a great victory. Your people chose to honour you with their sacrifice, because you are a great king.”

No. Arthur had failed. So many had fallen.

“You succeeded, clotpole,” the voice went on. “Against all the odds. And now we have a future to look forward to. Now stop beating yourself up about what you can’t change.”

Clotpole? Ah, now he recognised that voice. Warm. Aggravating. Annoying. Beloved.

“Come on, cabbagehead.” Something warm settled across his shoulders. “Time to rest.” Familiar hands wormed into the space beneath his arms, hauling him up.

“What?” Bewildered, disoriented for a moment, Arthur looked up at a pair of concerned eyes, themselves tired but still fond. Despite himself, Arthur smiled. “I’m feeling a bit wobbly.”

“You and me both,” said Merlin, smiling back, though his eyes were bright and brimful of moonlight. “Come on. I’ll give that thick neck a massage.”

Somehow, Arthur’s weight had shifted onto his feet, and he was shuffling forward.

“My neck,” said Arthur, yawning, “is not thick.”

“Of course it is. It has to be to hold up that thick head.”

They stumbled together across the slippery flagstones, Arthur’s stiff muscles groaning beneath his weight. “My head's not as thick as yours. Poltroon.”

“You made that word up,” Merlin retorted.

“No,” said Arthur. “You’re the one that makes up words. I _learned_ that one.”

Before he knew it, he was tumbling onto the covers of his bed. Brisk-fingered, Merlin took off Arthur's feasting robes. As good as his word, he then pulled out a pot of Gaius’s best muscle ointment, and smoothed warmth into the knots that bunched and spasmed in Arthur’s neck, shoulders and back. As Arthur lay, inwardly struggling with the torment of the sacrifices that his people had made to secure this victory, Merlin’s fingers dug into his flesh, and the tension began to bleed away.    

From time to time, Arthur wondered about Merlin. How could some peasant boy with terrible manners and ridiculous dress sense understand so much about the burdens of kingship, without being told?

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re hiding something from me, Merlin,” Arthur mumbled into his pillow while Merlin rubbed ointment onto Arthur’s cramping sword arm so that the muscles untangled a little.

"Me?" Merlin paused, so briefly that Arthur almost missed it. “I’m an open book, Sire.”

“Oh, _Sire_ , is it? Now I know you’re hiding something. Some day, you must tell me. Tell me everything.” Lulled by Merlin’s familiar presence, and by his deep trust, Arthur felt his eyelids droop.

“As you wish, Sire.” Merlin’s hands stopped in their ministrations, and a soft blanket settled over Arthur’s shoulders.

“But by all the gods, not today.” Arthur sighed, stretching, turning his head, on the edge of sleep.

Through the blurring, restless images that skittered through his mind, he felt a soft flutter against his bare arm, so fleeting that he could have imagined it. Like the touch of a finger, or a pair of warm lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I'm not getting paid for this work.


End file.
